Once he sang of bud and shoot
In the season of the Spring;
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Fading leaf and falling fruit
Say, “The year is on the wing,
Hath the Master lost his lute?”
Ere the axe lie at the root,
Ere the winter come as king,
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Hath the Master lost his lute?
TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS.
Αίαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μέν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾱπον ὄλωνται
ὕστερον άυ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι
άμμες δ’ οι μεγάλοι καὶ χαρτερί οι σοφοὶ ἄνδρες
ὁππότε πρᾱτα θάνωμες άνάχοοι ἔν χθονὶ χοίλα
‘εύδομες ἔυ μάλα μαχρὸν ἀπέμονα νήγρετον ‘ύπνον.
Alas, for us no second spring,
Like mallows in the garden-bed,
For these the grave has lost his sting,
Alas, for us no second spring,
Who sleep without awakening,
And, dead, for ever more are dead,
Alas, for us no second spring,
Like mallows in the garden-bed!
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave
That boast themselves the sons of men!
Once they go down into the grave—
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,—
They perish and have none to save,
They are sown, and are not raised again;
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,
That boast themselves the sons of men!
BALLADE OF CRICKET.
TO T. W. LANG.
The burden of hard hitting: slog away!
Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,”
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire,
When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,”—
“This is the end of every man’s desire!”